by D. F. Bailey
Finch pressed his lips together and looked away. He despised cops who tried to instruct him in the niceties of his own job. But he needed to keep Gruman on his side. He decided to change tack. “What about the Mercedes?”
“Bob Wriggly towed it into town. He’s storing it up in his lot. Nice set of wheels. It’s now part of Toeplitz’s estate. I expect the probate lawyers will keep it off limits.”
Maybe, Finch thought. But likely that was a pretty low priority right now. He made a note of Wriggly’s name and continued. “And the hunters who found him?’
Gruman finished his coffee and lifted his hat in his left hand. “Ethan and Ben Argyle. School teacher and his boy. Most weekends they’re somewhere up in the hills. Preppers — like a dozen other people around here. They all stockpile brown rice and beans in their root cellars. They’re friendly enough, though. You can reach Ethan at Astoria High School. He might take you up there.” He eased his legs from under the table and stood.
Again, Finch noted their names and then got to his feet and shook the sheriff’s hand. Gruman stood at least four inches taller than the reporter. “You mind if I tell Ethan Argyle we were talking?”
This question forced Gruman to pause. A look of hesitation — or regret that he’d revealed too much — passed over his face. Then he leaned forward to look at Finch directly. “Course not. And ask him to say ‘hello’ to Millie for me.”
“Thanks, Mark.” Finch smiled, happy to dangle his first name before him. A breach of the sheriff’s self-esteem, or protocol perhaps, but it allowed Finch to push open a door that had separated them. “One last question. Do we know why Toeplitz was driving up those switchback logging roads the day he died?”
Gruman ran his tongue along the edge of his upper teeth. He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll read about that when you find out, Will. On your blog, next time I log onto your internet newspaper.”
Finch walked Gruman to the door, then raised a hand in the air as if he’d forgotten something. “Pit stop,” he said and waved toward the bathroom. “Good talking to you.”
Gruman frowned once more, his standard expression Finch realized, and as he turned toward his car the sheriff called out, “any time.”
※
Finch walked back to the cashier and asked her for directions to Bob Wriggly’s towing operation, the medical examiner’s office, and Astoria High School. Because the Mercedes would soon be cleaned up and moved off his premises by the estate lawyers, he knew he had to find Wriggly immediately. But first he called the high school and made an appointment to see Ethan Argyle and his son when school let out. A second call landed him an early-afternoon meeting with Jennie Lee.
Twenty minutes later he pulled into Wriggly’s property off Navy Pipeline Road. A dirt track rose through an open gate that led to a cedar-sided cabin on the left and an old barn that had been converted into a combination garage and auto-wrecking operation. At least fifty abandoned cars and trucks littered the gravel path up to the door where a man stood in grease-caked overalls, his fists bunched on his hips, staring down at Finch.
“Lost?” he called out.
“Not if you’re Bob Wriggly,” he said as he climbed out of his car. He smiled and held out a hand. “Will Finch. I was hoping to talk to you.”
The mechanic waved his hand in the air, his knuckles and palm smudged with grease. “Good to meet you, but shaking my mitt won’t help you any.” He laughed, happy with this small joke.
Finch realized that Wriggly was the opposite of Gruman — warm, generous, eager to please — and he explained that he was a reporter following the Whitelaw trial in San Francisco, and trying to make some sense of Toeplitz’s death.
“Don’t know anything about Whitelaw. Or Toesplits. Or whatever his name is,” he said as he adjusted a baseball cap over the gray hair that spiked past his ears. “But I know a few things about that Mercedes GLK.”
“Nice car, huh?”
Wriggly tipped his head toward Finch’s Ford Tempo and over to his own vehicle, an Econoline van sporting a dozen stickers for rod and gun clubs plastered over a series of festering rust patches. “Nicer than yours or mine.” He laughed a little and then his voice flattened. “At least before that bear yanked him out of there. So what can I do to help?”
As easy as that, the door opened. Once a month Finch encountered the Bob Wrigglys of the world, people who live open, honest lives and no matter their age — Wriggly looked about sixty — they’re never warped by cynicism or some other funk that grips so many people.
“Sheriff Gruman told me you towed Toeplitz’s car out of the hills. If you’ve got it parked somewhere, I’d like to have a look. Take a picture or two,” he said and lifted his cell phone in one hand, “just so I have an image for the article I promised my editor tonight.”
Wriggly nodded toward the barn. “You email it in?”
Finch smiled. “Hopefully before midnight. Otherwise I catch hell.”
“I bet,” Wriggly said and he led the way toward the barn. He yanked the sliding door to the left, flipped a set of switches, and the garage reverberated with the sound of overhead fluorescent lamps sputtering to life.
An instant later the room was flooded with light. Finch was surprised by the tidy interior space. At the far end, an exterior door leading onto the forest stood ajar. One wall, racked with an array of tools, faced a full-service mechanical shop. A 1967 Mustang was aloft on a hoist and beside it, enclosed behind a chain-link fence, stood a black Mercedes GLK. The loose fencing around the car was secured with an Ace padlock. At a glance, Finch knew that any street kid could break it open in a few minutes.
“That’s Toesplits’s.” Wriggly chuckled as if couldn’t get over the name.
“Can you open the gate? Just for a few pics.”
Wriggly considered this a moment, then walked to one of the tool chests, and pulled a key into his fist. He paused and set the key back in place. “You know, I’d best not. Sheriff insisted it wasn’t part of a crime scene — the car wouldn’t be allowed here if it was — but Jennie Lee ordered me to leave everything as is and secure the car behind the fence until she files her report.”
Finch stepped up to the fence. “I heard the driver’s window was wide open.” His voice dropped to a whisper, but Wriggly could still hear him.
“Still is. I haven’t touched a thing. Despite the smell.”
“Lee’s the county medical examiner?” He paced in front of the fence, scanning for irregularities.
“She is that.” Wriggly nodded and watched him step away. “And more.”
“And more?”
“Woman’s on the move. I give her another few months to make her mark here, then move on to Portland. Can’t blame her; she’s an outsider.”
Finch considered this. An outsider. Unlike Gruman and Wriggly. “And she told you there might be something more to this?”
“No.” Wriggly shrugged and Finch glanced at him, a look to encourage him to go on. “Nothing more to it, it’s just … incomplete.”
“Incomplete?” Finch studied him a moment, waiting for him to elaborate. When he offered nothing more than a frown, Finch turned the conversation to the bear. “Have you ever seen this kind of thing before?”
“Never. But I’ve read about it.” Wriggly shrugged. “Every few years somewhere in the northwest you hear stories about rogue bears.”
“Yeah, I’ve read them, too,” Finch said and slid the phone back into his pocket. Before he left San Francisco, he’d googled fatal black bear attacks. They were rare, but often severe and sometimes deadly.
After a few minutes, as Wriggly walked the reporter back to the Ford Tempo, he cleared his throat and spat on the gravel. “Don’t you think it’s a little odd that Toesplits’s car is being stored here?”
Finch pondered the deeper question drawn in Wriggly’s face. “Why? After an accident don’t you store cars like this while the lawyers probate the estate?” He smiled, thinking they were in this together now, and in all of Oregon, Bob
Wriggly was the best friend he had.
“Never. It’s either secured by the sheriff in the police compound for analysis or evidence. But if the tow job is considered a private fare, I’m left to deal with it as I see fit,” he said. “I’ve never been told by the medical examiner to keep a car under lock and key. Never been told to leave blood smeared all over the seats. Not like that,” he said and crooked a thumb back toward the garage. “This is different.”
Will considered the problem. “So Gruman wanted the car out of police custody, but Janice Lee wanted to keep it under surveillance. I guess that runs a little contrary to my experience with cops. But I’ve only just met Gruman. Seems like he’s overworked. Maybe he doesn’t want the trouble.”
“Maybe not.” Wriggly turned his head doubtfully.
Finch glanced around Wriggly’s yard and tried to judge the quickest way to drive to the medical examiner’s office. On the left past Wriggly’s gate he could see the dirt track cut up the hill toward a thick stand of cedar trees. “If I go up the hill can I find my way back into town?”
“Eventually. But the only house up there is Mark Gruman’s place.”
“The sheriff?”
“Craziest collection of wood-n-nails this side of Portland. A Geodesic dome hand-built by our local hero. Looks like it, too.”
Finch turned his head. “Local hero … what does that mean?”
Wriggly nodded with a grudging respect. “Won himself a bronze star in Iraq. That’s why he’s always elected county sheriff. Four terms running. Maybe five.” He lifted his ball cap, scratched the rag of silver hair with his free hand. “Yeah, he was in Desert Storm. Got himself a reputation over there. The boys called him the Bone Maker.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Less than an hour later Will Finch was trying to keep pace with Jennie Lee. The county medical examiner was a lean, thirty-year-old physician and forensic pathologist — and a paragon of fitness and health. The opposite of the daylight-phobic stereotype portrayed in most CSI dramas, Jennie marched along a hillside trail above Astoria with a vigor that glowed in her face.
“Despite what you might think, normally this case wouldn’t rate a forensic autopsy,” Jennie pronounced without a gasp. “In these cases — death by misadventure — our mandate is simply to determine the cause of death, confirm the identity of the corpse and then restore the remains to a state of dignity. Which, in the Toeplitz case, was impossible.”
“That bad, was it?” Finch hauled in a lungful of air and inwardly rejoiced to see Jennie pull over at a cliffside viewpoint. From time to time he caught a glimpse of the wide mouth of the Columbia River and the green hills of Washington State in the distance. Perhaps she’d pause here for five or ten minutes.
Jennie ignored the question and studied the view. “Now there’s a sight most Americans would give their eye teeth to savor once in a lifetime. Me, I get to see it every day. I’m glad you caught me when you did. Just in time for my daily constitutional.”
Constitutional. Finch pondered the possibilities. A few superficial clues suggested that she was a fairly traditional woman, perhaps even a Republican.
“The best way to enjoy the highlights. Follow the locals, right?”
“When in Rome,” he mused and stood a moment in silence as the panic in his lungs subsided. He realized that Jennie had an obligation to maintain the confidentiality of Toeplitz’s autopsy, but he hoped that if he kept his requests to verifying the facts, Jennie might begin to trust him. “My editor told me that the car registration and his license identified the vehicle owner as Ray Toeplitz. That seems clear. But did the DNA from the corpse confirm his identity?”
Jennie shifted her eyes from the river to Finch. “You mean was I able to determine if the corpse found on the side of the road was that of the car’s registered owner?”
“Yes.” He glanced away. This could take a while, he realized. She was much more litigious than most MEs that he’d met. Perhaps the most by-the-book person he’d ever encountered. He forced a smile to his lips. “Exactly. In other words, was the body that of Raymond Toeplitz?”
Jennie shifted her feet, half-turning to face him. “Did you know Mr. Toeplitz?”
Finch nodded and realized he had to offer her something. “Not well, but I’ve interviewed him. Twice, in fact.”
“Twice?” Jennie cocked her head and crossed her arms.
“Once when his employer, Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss, was exposed in a massive fraud. A little less than year ago now.”
Jennie blinked and raised a hand to her chin. “I remember that. Something to do with bitcoin, right?”
Finch nodded and studied an eagle hovering over the shoreline. “Yeah. Four hundred and fifty million dollars worth simply vanished from a bitcoin exchange in Japan called Mt. Gox.” He’d also interviewed two hedge fund managers caught up in the swindle. Three weeks later, one of them, Helmut Naumann had committed suicide in his office in Berlin. “I did the second interview with Toeplitz just before the trial began,” he continued. “Toeplitz was trying to get me to publish a PR spin job. He was pretty upset when he realized I didn’t spin it the way he hoped.” Finch smiled, thinking about how he’d exposed the corruption at the heart of the senator’s company.
Jennie set her hands on her hips and looked into the distance. “So that was Toeplitz.”
“Yup. That was Toeplitz.” But there was more to add. The story had occupied the press for a good three months, then moved to the back pages during the trial delays before it almost disappeared. “But two or three weeks before he died, the DA announced that Toeplitz had substantial incriminating evidence in hand and would testify against Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss.”
Jennie focused her eyes on the tree limbs overhead. She appeared to be considering a distant problem, an anomaly. “So when exactly did the DA announce that he’d turned Toeplitz for the prosecution?”
Finch shrugged. “I’d have to check the files.” In fact, he’d been off the case at the time, bouncing off the walls at Eden Veil, pondering how and when he’d crawl back to reality.
A puzzled look crossed her face. “And between the DA’s announcement and last Saturday, what made Toeplitz drive through the Oregon switchbacks?”
“I asked Sheriff Gruman the same question.” He’d been waiting to flash Gruman’s name onto her radar, just to test her reaction, but she made no response at all. A real pro, he concluded, and decided to press on. After all, he’d given her a fair amount of info, now it was her turn to deliver. “What about the Mercedes? Bob Wriggly says Sheriff Gruman refused to classify the case as a crime without any substantiating evidence, but you insisted Wriggly had to keep the car secured.”
Jennie looked away. Finch could tell that she was trying to determine if she could trust him.
“What about the car? Did you see it?”
More questions from her, but no answers. “I saw it,” Finch said and nodded his head, a move to suggest this cat-and-mouse game had to end soon. “Just from a distance. Bob Wriggly wouldn’t let me any closer. From what I can tell, the sheriff wants to move on, but you just want to hang on. Now why is that, Ms. Lee?”
“Why? Because I’m not ready to sign off on this one. Not yet. But I’ll tell you when I am.” She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. A long pause held between them, but Finch knew enough to let it linger. Finally she spoke: “There’s something wrong with the blood.”
“Something wrong with the blood?”
“Look, I’m sure you know how rare bear attacks are. Especially fatal attacks like this, with the victim secure inside his car. I don’t think it’s ever happened before.” She rolled her lower jaw from side to side. “Beyond that, there’s blood everywhere. It’s like he bled out inside the car,” she said and fixed her eyes on Finch again. “Look you can’t print that. Not until I know for sure.”
“What are you suggesting? I thought Ethan and Ben Argyle found the bear feeding on Toeplitz’s corpse on the roadside.”
“I know that.�
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She crossed her arms again and he realized he was only one or two questions from blowing the interview and losing Jennie as a primary source. He scanned the river below. The blood loss was vital information, whatever it meant. Depending on her final report, something explosive could emerge. He understood that if he released the news before she was certain, she could be compromised. But he needed answers.
“All right. I’ll hold off on any mention about the blood until you’re certain. But I’ve got to file a story tonight. And I’ll report that the Mercedes is ‘unofficially’ impounded. That’s information I uncovered on my own. In return for holding back your concern about the blood loss, I want to be the first reporter to read your final evaluation. Deal?”
She nodded with a look of determination. “All right, deal. But I need your help, too. I know you’re going to pull this story apart any way you can. That’s something I can’t do because I have to live and work here. And you might stumble on some facts. I’d appreciate it if you tell me anything before you publish it.”
A blank check. Finch had learned long ago never to negotiate an open-ended contract with a source. It gets far too complicated. “Look, Jennie, I can’t open the door that wide because I don’t know what’s on the other side. And besides, just like you, I’m bound by professional ethics. And I never reveal my sources. For the same reason, I’d never reveal you as a source.” He dropped his hands to his side, palms open, a plea for clemency.
“All right.” She nodded. “But apart from those limitations, I want details from you.”
“Agreed. And I’ll let you know exactly when the DA flipped Toeplitz as a witness for the prosecution.”
Finch smiled and held out a hand. She shook it firmly and without another word she turned and jogged west along the trail. He headed back towards his car. It’d be a grueling half hour walk without any stops to admire the scenery. With luck he could make it to Astoria High School before three o’clock.
